For the first time the pretence that they were equals on some impersonal quest for facts was broken. She stared at him.
‘I did it for her,’ she said. ‘I did it to protect her.’
He wanted to contradict her, to tell her that she was deluding herself and that it had been her own reputation and safety she was concerned about, but he thought better of it. If she were to survive the court case and the prison sentence she would need to believe that her motives, at least, were unselfish. He returned to the facts.
‘When did Theresa realise?’ he said.
‘When we got to the fair. She’d been too drugged before then to think clearly. She wanted to look for Joss, but when we got there she seemed distracted. There were two kids messing about on the Big Wheel. It must have given her the idea. She asked if we could have a ride. She seemed so keen that I agreed. Then she tried to push me out.’
‘We would have arrested you anyway. Even if she hadn’t caused the scene.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I see that now.’
She seemed suddenly very tired. She lay her head on her arms like a child at its desk. He stood up quietly and walked out.
When Patrick Cassidy and Imogen returned to the vicarage, Edward was already there. They could see him in the bright, harsh light of the study through the uncurtained window, and hesitated on the gravel drive before going in to face him. For the first time it was cool and quiet. There was a breeze from the river. They had walked down the drive in silence, but now Patrick whispered: ‘I’m sorry about tonight. I don’t know what came over me.’
She did not know what to say. She was so tired, so light-headed, that she felt nothing, not even relief that he seemed to be himself again. She took his hand and they went into the house. Edward must have heard the kitchen door being opened and he rushed to meet them.
‘Patrick!’ he said. ‘ Thank God. Imogen, my dear child, you must phone your parents. They’re worried sick. They’ve even been to the police. Sit down. You both look exhausted. Have you left the car in town? How sensible! We’ll fetch it tomorrow. Let me make some tea.’
He bustled about, his pleasure at seeing them shining through his grief. The phone rang.
‘I expect that will be your parents to see if there’s any news,’ he said. Then, as Imogen stood up to answer it, ‘ No, no, you stay there. You look worn out. You mustn’t move.
I’ll tell them you can stay the night in the spare room and you can go home tomorrow.’
He hurried from the room. The kettle began to hum. Imogen stood up, rinsed old tea bags from the pot, found new ones in a rusty tin caddy. After the evening of frantic activity Patrick was drained, but calmer, almost relaxed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I was so angry. I needed to do something. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’
Before she could reply Edward Cassidy came in. He was serious, rather dignified.
‘That was Ramsay,’ he said. ‘The detective inspector. They’ve caught Dorothea’s murderer. He wanted to tell me, he said, before I heard through the press. Apparently it was a social worker, some woman Dorothea had worked quite closely with. He didn’t give me many details but she’s admitted everything. It’s a relief, isn’t it, it’s over?’
Imogen looked at Patrick. He showed no reaction, seemed to feel no need for apology. You thought it might be me, she wanted to say. That’s what all that was about tonight. You wanted to see if you could make me confess. But she said nothing. There had been enough drama for one day.
‘I think I’ll phone my parents,’ she said, ‘ask them to come and fetch me. I’d rather be at home.’
‘Can I see you tomorrow?’ Patrick asked, but she did not answer. She needed time to think.
When Hunter and Ramsay left the police station it was beginning to get light. They could see the silhouette of the abbey ruins against the grey sky. A lorry towing a large caravan rumbled out of the fairground and many of the rides had already been demolished. They must have worked all night at it. The men did not speak. Ramsay had shown Hunter a copy of Hilary Masters’s statement but there was none of the jubilation that usually followed an arrest.
Poor bastard, Hunter thought. He really fancied her. He really fancied the Snow Queen.
In the car park they hesitated awkwardly, each standing by his car, unwilling to move away first.
‘Look,’ Hunter said suddenly, ‘why don’t you come back with me? Have some breakfast. My mam’s a great cook.’
He did not for one moment think Ramsay would accept. They had nothing in common and had been rivals since Hunter had joined the team. Ramsay was too stuck up, he thought. He was used to grander things. But the inspector smiled.
‘Thank you,’ he said, knowing that Hunter had only asked because he felt sorry for him, but grateful all the same. He was not ready yet to face the empty cottage in Heppleburn. ‘If it wouldn’t put your mother out too much I’d like that very much.’
Ann Cleeves
Ann Cleeves is the author behind ITV’s VERA and BBC One’s SHETLAND. She has written over twenty-five novels, and is the creator of detectives Vera Stanhope and Jimmy Perez – characters loved both on screen and in print. Her books have now sold over one million copies worldwide.
Ann worked as a probation officer, bird observatory cook and auxiliary coastguard before she started writing. She is a member of ‘Murder Squad’, working with other British northern writers to promote crime fiction. In 2006 Ann was awarded the Duncan Lawrie Dagger (CWA Gold Dagger) for Best Crime Novel, for Raven Black, the first book in her Shetland series. In 2012 she was inducted into the CWA Crime Thriller Awards Hall of Fame. Ann lives in North Tyneside.
